Chapter Thirty-One #2
Ciara had always been right about her. Shea was too afraid of losing to play to her full potential. She couldn’t help smiling. She was going to lose if she made the wrong move, and she was going to lose if she made no move at all. What did it matter what she did, then?
Her cheeks ached where her fists were pressing into them.
Shea opened her eyes to find Midir watching her.
As always, it struck her how little resemblance Ciara bore to him.
He had no freckles, no warmth to his skin, no humanity at all.
Shea wondered, fleetingly, which of their parents he took after.
How strange that she knew so little about him.
Once, he must have been a formidable player in his own right.
He’d had to defeat his first grandmaster, after all, to claim their ability for his own.
That was what made it worse, somehow. He’d possessed some talent of his own and squandered it. It occurred to her for the first time that the whole thing was a little sad. Here was a man—no, an immortal being—just as afraid of losing as she was.
Shea looked down at the board and saw it anew.
This time, she picked out not only the disasters real and imagined but the reality of what they’d wrought together.
It was true that this far into the game, she was beginning to feel the material imbalance.
It was also true that she had compensation in the form of piece activity.
Moreover, she had familiarity with this intricate, beautiful mess with all its tactical complications.
As bad as it looked, this was what she’d wanted.
He had not made a mistake, and he likely would not—at least, not until she dragged him into the mud of a time scramble, an endgame where it was not the best player who won but the one who best held their nerve.
Getting there meant presenting him with constant threats and problems to solve. He had no confidence to play by himself; he’d agonize over every single choice. Steeling herself, she moved her bishop onto the long diagonal.
By the thirtieth move, her moves came instantaneously, and he spent precious seconds considering each one.
His two-toned eyes studied the position hungrily, thoroughly.
He was burning his clock, wrestling for the best move while she played simple, practical chess.
She squeezed him into a fifteen-second lead.
Then thirty. Then forty-five. Each time he blinked, his left eye changed color—too quickly to be of any use, surely.
Hope bloomed within her, as vicious and stubborn as a weed.
She was alone, maybe, but so was he.
With no more than a minute on the clock each, they both leaned over the board, practically rising out of their seats.
They moved frenetically. Their hands flew out to make their moves, nearly knocking over all the pieces in the process.
Sweat glistened on Midir’s brow. Shea’s every muscle was coiled tight, every motion jerky and painful.
But she felt alive. With no space for thought, no space for fear, she played on pure instinct.
The tension burning in her body dissipated and all that remained was a heady, bloodthirsty exhilaration.
Five seconds remained, and Shea checked his king with her remaining rook.
Four seconds, and Midir interposed with his knight.
Three seconds, and she brought her own knight forward.
Two seconds, and he slid his king to another square—and yes, there, she saw it: checkmate in three.
The knight in her hand crackled with pure, electric potential.
Midir must’ve seen the end, too, because he frantically scanned the board for any safe place to hide his king.
It was too late. The last grain of sand in his hourglass fell.
In the silence, she imagined she could hear it striking the others with a sound like a gunshot, final and fatal.
She’d flagged him. She’d won.
Shea laughed breathlessly. Tears stung at her eyes. Her ears buzzed painfully, as though her very soul was shifting to accommodate this new reality. Midir sat unmoving, uncomprehending.
“I lost,” he said.
It was almost a question. There was a childlike uncertainty in his voice, mixed with a quiet awe. Shea did not know what to say, because yeah, you did, sounded a little callous. His expression changed slowly. First came denial. Second, anguish. And third, a blistering, all-consuming rage.
“I … lost.” With one broad sweep of his arm, he cast all the remaining pieces off the board. Then, howling furiously, he smashed his head onto the table.
“Whoa,” she said helplessly. “Take it easy.”
Midir bashed his forehead against the board twice more for good measure, then stared up at her with one wild, accusing eye. It was a grisly sight. Blood ran down his face in thin rivulets. “Look what you have done to me!”
Ah, she thought. Here, at last, was the family resemblance.
Her horrified amusement, however, was short-lived. The entire world shifted beneath her feet and knocked her into her own chair. The distant sound of screams punched through the mist. As it dissipated, Shea could see splintering glass and crumbling stone—and all the spectators running for cover.
He was going to bring down the entire castle.
Midir had buried his face in his hands, seemingly oblivious to the destruction he was causing. A chunk of stone wall shattered the solarium’s ceiling and crashed to the ground barely a yard away from them. The impact reverberated through her chest. The beams groaned, threatening to give way.
“Midir,” she said urgently.
He ignored her, and a flare of annoyance cut through her panic. If he was so determined to die because he lost a stupid board game, who was she to stop him? He’d ruined her life, after all. He’d haunted her for years. He was cruel and changeful and selfish and … pathetic.
Seeing him like this made her feel indescribably exhausted. No, there was no satisfaction to be found here. Besides, she still needed her wish.
“Midir.” Shea grabbed his arm. “We need to go. Now.”
He sighed miserably. “Oh, very well.”
As stones and shards of glass pelted the earth like hail, the two of them fled. Shea hesitated for only a moment to look back. She wasn’t a sentimental person, really. But even she hated to see the board she’d played her immortal game on now buried beneath the rubble.